


Healing takes more finesse than an arc welder

by Lautari



Series: Threading Stars [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Brotherhood, F/M, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Heartache, Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 06:13:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17503166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lautari/pseuds/Lautari
Summary: Han’s trigger finger twitched and he clenched his eyes before letting out a harsh breath and looking at his friend again. “What happened?”Luke still wouldn’t meet his gaze, and opened his mouth and then closed it again before saying, “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”





	Healing takes more finesse than an arc welder

**Author's Note:**

> I miss the Star Wars I grew up with. The EU holds a fond place in my heart, and it’ll always be my canon. It’s been a few years since I’ve picked up any of the novels, so please forgive any inaccuracies. This will just be a series of haphazard vignettes, so while there will be common themes threading them together, chronological order is not promised.  
> I hope you enjoy my offerings in nostalgia.

**OOOOO**

 

Luke had disappeared.

Leia had to go up to the Mon Cal StarCruiser to wait for Mon Mothma, but Han opted to stay planetside and help mobilize the ground troops the next day. He was comfortable here anyway. Flagships and diplomacy would always be Leia’s world. Breaking open crates of liquor with pilots and the locals would be his.

The party had died down quite a bit by the time Han realized Luke had snuck off. Bonfires and drinking were still going strong, but small groups were splintering off. Kes and Shara had crept away, and Wes and Tycho were in the middle of a tense drinking game. “Chewie,” Han called to the Wookie who was on one of the bridges. “Where’s Junior?”

Chewie chuffed a response and nodded to the small clearing where the Falcon sat. Han could see some lights through the trees. He wasn’t really surprised. Luke wasn’t exactly an extrovert. He could party with rest of the hotshots but was usually the first to call it a night.

He ascended the Falcon’s ramp and frowned. “Luke?”

He followed Artoo’s warbles and sparking noises followed by hisses of pain. “Artoo, I know you want to help, but this takes more finesse than an arc welder,” he heard Luke soothe. Another clank and muttered curse led Han to the rec area. Luke was hunched over the Dejarik table with a toolbox beside him and a pair of pliers in hand. Artoo warbled a greeting and Han absent mindedly patted the droid’s dome. “What the…”

Luke’s head shot up. “Han.”

The smuggler frowned at the scene before him. “What happened to your arm?”

Luke’s face turned red. “Leia didn’t tell you?”

“ _No_ ,” was Han’s very pissed off response.

“It’s just my hand.”

Han swallowed, nodding at the obvious prosthetic. The synth skin was charred and wiring and permametal bone exposed. “What happened?”

“Bespin,” Luke murmured.

Han straightened. “Vader.”

“Yeah.” Luke made a chopping motion across his wrist, and smiled weakly in jest. “Gone.”

Han felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. “Not funny.” He stepped closer. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It got shot on Tatooine. And then…” Something in his eyes flickered. “And then I had electrical issues on the Death Star. It keeps shorting out.” He lifted his hand and turned the wrist, wincing at the sparks shocking him. The fingers were sluggish and jerked when he tried to wiggle them. “I’m ready to just cut it off and start over.”

“Easy. Let’s just see what we’re working with.” Han gripped Luke’s shoulder and squeezed as he lowered himself on the bench, but frowned when his friend moaned. “What?”

Luke shook his head and reached for the bottle of liquor he’d swiped from the party. “Just a little worse for wear.”

Han felt a wetness and his hand came away red. He became angry. “Nothing?” He yanked back Luke’s collar and looked down his back. “ _Luke_ ,” he bit out. “Strip.”

Luke smiled guiltily up at him. It was only then Han noticed the glazed over, blood shot eyes. “I can’t lift my arms.”

Han frowned grimly and dug out a pair of cutters in the toolbox and gently tore Luke’s shirt. He grimaced at the char marks on the fabric. Luke peeled it off his arms and tossed it into a corner. Han whistled. “Luke, you need medical help.”

“No.”

“Luke, you are sliced open between your shoulder blades. Deep.” He grimaced. “Looks like someone tried to dig your shoulder blade out.”

Luke winced, remembering the stinging pain when the catwalk collapsed on the Death Star.

“And these burns…..Luke, some of these are pretty bad.”

As if to drive his point home, Han ran a thumb over one of the angry red streaks across Luke’s shoulder. Luke hissed at the contact. “You take me to Medical, they’ll ground me.” He held ups his mechanical hand. “I’m cleared to fly with this. But you haul me in and they start poking around and they do a full work up, they’ll take my wings. I’ll be done.”

“Why?”

Luke paused and wouldn’t meet his gaze. “My peripheral is gone in both eyes.”

Han swore. For a fighter pilot that was a death sentence.

“Look, I can fly. I’m no danger to anyone out there. I’m a Jedi. I can roll through an asteroid field with my eyes closed. But you and I both know that they can’t accept that. They’ll ground me.”

Han’s trigger finger twitched and he clenched his eyes before letting out a harsh breath and looking at his friend again. “What happened?”

Luke still wouldn’t meet his gaze, and opened his mouth and then closed it again before saying, “I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”

It was three solid beats before Han nodded. “Fine.” He threw open one of the lockers. “Med supplies.”

Luke winced sheepishly. “I’m not sure what there is. We didn’t exactly get it restocked after I lost my hand.”

Han swallowed, thinking of the triage needed for an amputated limb. He scavenged a few bacta strips and pulled out a cauterizing tool. Luke’s eyes were fearful. “Kid, we got to get that wound closed up.”

 

**OOOOO**

 

Han peered into the darkness at the bottom of the ramp and whistled at the Rogue passing by. “Wedge! Come here!”

The pilot threw the core of whatever fruit he was gnawing on and followed him up the ramp. “What’s wro –“ He froze when he saw Luke. “ _Shavit_.”

“I need help. We have to get him closed up.”

“Why don’t you get him to a med frigate?”

Han turned and stared pointedly at the Jedi. _I told you._ “He’s afraid they’ll ground him.”

“Han!” Luke snapped.

The smuggler raised his hand in surrender. Wedge raised his eyebrows. “That true?”

Luke stared at his boots. “I can fly, Wedge.”

“Was going off and getting beat through all the Corellian hells the reason you weren’t up there with us?”

Han spun on the other pilot. _“Hey.”_

“Kriff you, Wedge.” There was no heat behind Luke’s voice, only exhaustion.

Han waited for the litany of snide remarks between the two Rogues, but he had a feeling they’d already had this argument. He cleared his throat. “As strange as it is, two Corellians being the voice of reason in the situation, Luke really needs taken care of regardless.”

The other pilot regarded Luke for a moment before sighing. “ _Hokay_. What do you want me to do?”

Han held up the cauterizing tool and Luke visibly blanched again. “Please don’t.”

“It’s this or we take you up to the fleet and let Leia have her way with you.”

Luke closed his eyes, shivering at the memory of Vader’s lightsaber cauterizing his wrist as it sliced through his flesh, nerves, muscle, bone... “Fine.”

Han flipped it on and it beeped while heating. Wedge swallowed. “You’ll have to do it, Han. I’m drunk as hell.”

Han grimaced. He wouldn’t have let Wedge do it anyway, but he didn’t relish the thought of causing Luke pain. “Just hold him. Luke, don’t make me get Chewie.”

Luke moaned softly and took another swig from the bottle. “Okay.” He spun the chair so he was straddling it backwards and pressed his chest against the back. Wedge planted his feet and him and Luke gripped each other at the elbow. “Do it.”

“Hold him,” Han murmured to Wedge. He took a deep breath and then touched the white hot coil to Luke’s skin. The younger man lurched and screamed but Han didn’t stop. Wedge let his friend wrap his arms around his waist and bury his face in his flightsuit, squeezing, trying desperately to get away from the torment.

“You have to keep him quiet,” Han growled. Beads of sweat ran down his forehead and both men gagged at the smell of burning skin. It was a painstaking process, made worse by Luke’s screams. Han felt like a butcher, and wished the Jedi would pass out. Wedge grabbed a rag from the table and stuffed it in Luke’s mouth. “Bite.”

The screams were muffled, but still unbearable. Wedge grasped Luke’s armpit and head. “It’s okay, bud. Almost over.”

By the time Han finally put the tool down, Luke was limp. “He unconscious?”

Wedge pulled Luke’s head back and raised his eyebrows. “Nope, just wishing he was.”

Han smiled grimly and pulled a bacta strip off the adhesive and pressed it against the cauterized wound. Luke moaned low in his throat, but didn’t say anything. “Worst is over, but the burns are probably going to be tender. Let’s just get some ointment on them. There’s probably only a few spots that are going to need new skin. I’ll have to see if I can get my hands on some more bacta patches.”

Both worked while Luke was still out of it, hissing when they touched more severe burns and he jerked. He grudgingly took another drink and then allowed himself to be helped to a bunk. “On your stomach,” Han commanded.

Wedge pulled Luke’s boots off and his eyes softened slightly taking in the sorry shape his squad mate was in, though resentment still kept him from acting in much sympathy. “I have to be above in 8 hours, but we can take shifts sitting with him.”

Han waved him off. “Go get some sleep, I’ll sit with him. Flop down on a bunk in crew quarters.” The pilot nodded his thanks and disappeared without a look over his shoulder. Pulling up a chair beside his friend, Han took his mechanical hand in his own and turned it over. He swallowed and fingered the faint seam where real and synthetic skin started about three inches above the wrist. “Ah kid,” he whispered, before running a hand through his hair and then grabbing the pliers, spending the rest of the night working on the young Jedi’s hand while it rested on his knee.


End file.
